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286 pages, Paperback
Published April 4, 2017
‘…the world’s about to end all over again. There’s no end to the ending of things. Our life is one long sickening plummet into loss and more loss.’
I used to think of myself as walking forward into the future, constructing the future I was walking into. I used to think of myself as not wasting energy thinking of myself as one thing or another, but just doing what had to be done. Now I seem to stand sideways on, watching some version of me that isn’t quite me. I notice myself feeling things. Or not. Or more than one thing at a time.
Either we pay attention, or we abandon the place to the slow invasion of nature, the seep and drip of water finding the weak points, until a dozen winters have split it open like a fallen trunk for woodlice to crawl through and rodents and nesting birds … The heat’s off, the damp’s rising. The works of man are rotting from the inside.
‘Maybe because it’s our deepest instinct – to make meaning.’
‘Even when there is no meaning?’
‘Especially then.’
I wanted to ask her – hadn’t she been here before? They give you a book. They say, it’s all in here, this is all you need.